And under the waters, the sun
by Calasse
Summary: Harry Potter, hailed Boy Who Lived, is adopted by Albus Dumbledore after Voldemort's fall. Raised under the guidance of a genius warlock, Harry grows up to be an open-minded and formidable young man. He makes a companion out of Tom Fuerst, a strange English boy of German upbringing. Harry finds that unraveling the other boy's secrets brings to light his own dark tendencies. HPTMR.
1. Prologue

**Summary:** Harry James Potter, hailed Boy Who Lived, is adopted by Albus Dumbledore on the night of the Dark Lord's fall. Raised under the guidance of a genius warlock, Harry grows up to be an open-minded and formidable young man. He makes a companion out of Tom Fuerst, a strange English boy of German upbringing. Harry finds that unraveling the other boy's secrets brings to light his own darker tendencies.

**Main Pairing:** Harry Potter / Tom Riddle (Tom Fuerst)

**Tags:** A more ethical and upstanding Dumbledore, primarily a (complicated) friendship story but will eventually lead to slash (because too much UST between the two main characters like wtf), het, mature language, semi-graphic violence in the future, mild gore, a lot of sleeping around for our main characters before they finally get it on with one another, black and grey (or dubious at least) morality, canon divergence from October 31, 1981. A lot more but these are the most prominent and least likely to give away any spoilers.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. If there is anything in this piece of fiction that might offend the sensibilities of any reader, kindly send me a message and I will gladly put up an appropriate warning if warranted.

**Notes:** This has been sitting in my old hard drive for _years_, and instead of being a responsible author and updating any of my existing works, I've decided to post yet another WIP. (Please don't kill me.) I literally have more than a hundred half-fleshed out ideas for HPTMR/HPLV (157 in just the last couple of years, according to my last count) with accompanying prologues and some thousand words for each, and I figured that if I keep on posting my stuff, someone may find inspiration in them and make something out of the harebrained plots that I keep on generating.

Chapter One will be out in a jiffy (hopefully). As always, concrit is greatly appreciated.

Enjoy.

* * *

**And under the waters, the sun**

Prologue

**※**

The cool, calm night lulled the residents of Privet Drive, Little Whinging into comfortable sleep. The long stretch of the asphalt street was barren, all for the exception of a tall, eccentrically robed man.

His greying beard fell heavily down to his narrow waist, until it was tucked under a band of golden rope. A pointy hat sat lopsidedly on his head, tilting ever so slightly to the right but never tipping to a seemly fall. Slim-rimmed spectacles perched precariously on a crooked nose, hiding magnificent, yet solemn blue eyes.

Clasped in the strange man's hand was a lighter, except it was not. He was holding it up, watching patiently as the glow of the streetlamps spluttered, until the lights were flying speedily towards the module of the silver contraption. The street was bathed in darkness, bar a house that boasted of a gleaming, brass _4_.

The old man strode towards the house, and would have normally thought of humming a tune, if not for the reminder of the reason of his presence there. A melancholic aura seemed to have dowsed his lanky form at this thought.

"How may I help you, Minerva?" he warmly greeted a tabby cat, quirking up his lips into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

The tabby cat smoothly transformed into a stern-faced woman. A frown tugged down on the woman's lips. "Albus!" she exclaimed. "Is it true?" Her piercing eyes never left those of the old man's, their brightness belying her anxiety and dread.

"Whatever do you ask?"

"The Potters?" the witch replied hesitantly, afraid to know the answer.

The sadness in the old man's eyes told her enough, before the wizard replied, "I'm afraid it is."

A shocked gasp escaped the woman's throat, followed by a hand lain over her heart. "Oh, dear! Poor James, poor Lily… What happened? Where is their son?" Questions poured out of Minerva McGonagall's mouth, grief gripping her for lost friends.

"Hagrid's well on his way with young Harry. I imagine they'd be here in a few minutes' time," Dumbledore said.

A glare broke out on McGonagall's face. "Hagrid? For Merlin's sake, Albus! I do mean no offense towards Hagrid, but I hardly believe him capable of safely taking a baby here!" she said, worry tingeing her voice.

"I know you do not mean harm, Minerva, but I would trust Hagrid with my life," Dumbledore replied firmly, no doubt in his tone.

The stern-faced witch was ready to argue more, but a look from her mentor and colleague had her acquiescing, though her mouth was still twisted in disapproval. She asked again, "What happened, Albus?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, this time, and a sad but true smile lit up his face. "Voldemort has been defeated, dear friend. The Killing Curse had rebounded off young Harry—for this, the whole of wizarding Britain is calling him the Boy Who Lived—and hit Voldemort, instead, leaving only but his robes and a pile of ash."

McGonagall flinched at the mention of the Dark Lord's name. Dumbledore continued, seemingly ignorant of the witch's fear.

"But I'm of the belief that Harry was protected from Voldemort's killing curse with something else; his mother's love, and life. A powerful and noble sacrifice, from a brave woman…" Dumbledore trailed off.

A moment of silence tailed his declaration, before the witch caught something peculiar with the older man's wording. "Defeated?" she mused, pursing her lips as she looked askance at the old man.

Wizened blue orbs stared at her, seriousness lurking behind Dumbledore's glasses. "I suspect that Voldemort will rise again, Minerva. Voldemort is hardly a man that will let death undermine his genius."

Unfortunately, Minerva McGonagall knew how those words rang true. The feeling of relief that grew in her chest at having heard the Dark Lord's defeat died. Her lips thinned; if she were a lesser woman, she would have been worrying her lip out of renewed fear.

"But," a smile blossomed once again on Dumbledore's face, "his comeback will be a long time away, I speculate. The war that we have been fighting for years has, technically, come to an end. It is truly a time for celebration. The break of peace is needed, by everyone," he said, looking at her pointedly, "and you, my dear, should have been partying away with this blessing. I myself have joined a couple throughout the day on my way here."

The reminder of parties brought back McGonagall's glare with a vengeance. "I saw the muggle news, Albus! Robed wizards strolling about the streets, hundreds of owls flying throughout the day—_shooting stars!_ In Kent, Dundee, and Yorkshire! I bet that was the work of Dedalus Diggle, the foolish man. We have a Statute of Secrecy to uphold, Albus. They have to remember themselves," she heatedly said, although the witch remained poised in her spiel.

"That we do," Dumbledore agreed, before continuing, "yet joy has been missed for several long years in our world. It is not our right to take away their celebration when there _is_ _cause_ for celebration," he reminds, eyes twinkling.

McGonagall sighed, and grudgingly acceded. Their conversation was cut short as a deafening _Boom!_ disrupted the calm night. The sound was followed by a hunky mass of metal and smoke, as a big man drove unsteadily along the street. The motorcycle's tires screeched as it came to a stop, right next to the picket white fence of Number Four, Privet Drive.

McGonagall picked up her lengthy robes and hastily approached the half-giant. She eyed Hagrid, before curtly asking, "Where is Harry Potter?"

Hagrid took off the helmet that was barely containing his stringy bushy hair, sniffing, before picking up a bundle that was coated in Gryffindor colors. " 'ere 'e is, Prof'—_hick—_ssor," he replied, cradling the baby close to his wide chest as he cried, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

"There there, Hagrid," Dumbledore said, patting the half-giant's back. Shrewd blue eyes traced the baby's face, noting the lightning-shaped scar on the baby's otherwise unmarred forehead. He gently pulled the bundle into his arms, careful not to jostle the slumbering little boy.

The fresh scar was a curse mark; of that Dumbledore was sure. The dark magic broiling just about the curse mark would have consumed baby Harry's magical core, and therefore forfeited his life, if Dumbledore had not arrived in time at the destroyed Potter's cottage in Godric's Hallow. The old wizard had warded off most of the effects of the dark magic, with a spell that he wouldn't have imagined that he would use after facing Gellert Grindelwald in battle.

"It was 'orrible, Prof'ssor!" Hagrid cried, big shoulders shaking in grief. "James and Lily are—are—they are—_d-dead_!"

Dumbledore nodded sadly. He carefully passed the baby to the outstretched arms of his deputy, turning towards the sobbing half-giant and placing a hand on his shoulder, employing, with pure magic, a sense of calm to damper Hagrid's emotions.

The half-giant sniffled again, but after a while, Hagrid stopped crying, loudly blowing his nose into a dirty handkerchief. Dumbledore patted his shoulder twice before stepping aside, focusing his attention once again on Harry, sleeping peacefully in McGonagall's arms.

"What are we to do with little 'Arry, Prof'ssor?" Hagrid asked, a bit nasally.

Dumbledore sighed, shoulders sagging down in a great show of despair, as if a heavy responsibility has been placed, literally, on them. He said, "It is best that young Harry lives apart from the fame and glory of his indeed wondrous achievement. A boy like him must grow up as normally as permitted, with loving relatives and a warm home. Away from attention…"

"But Albus! You cannot mean to leave him with these muggles?" McGonagall interjected, horror and indignation present in her voice as she visualized the implications of her mentor's words.

"These muggles are Harry's relatives, Minerva," Dumbledore reprimanded, sharp eyes directed towards her. "They will care for him and provide for him. They may not be Lily and James, but they are as close to family as he can get. I will leave a letter implicitly stating the conditions of young Harry's predicament. I am sure that Petunia Dursley, Lily's sister, will understand enough."

Minerva McGonagall may have accepted a great lot of the Headmaster's decisions for times too many to count, and sometimes reluctantly, but this was a matter where her own belief wouldn't budge to accommodate. She glared fiercely, protective, maternal arms cradling the important bundle to her bosom, and she said, "I hardly think this is the life that James and Lily, bless their souls, would want their son subjected to! You are right; I have been here, watching the Dursley family, for a duration of the day too long, and I must say that they are not ideal for a wizard of Harry's standing. There cannot be individuals more different from us than them!"

"You are passing harsh judgment too early, my friend," Dumbledore replied, a frown painting his face. Hagrid stood to the side uneasily, fiddling with his dirty handkerchief as he watched two strong wills clash in front of his eyes. "I doubt that the Dursleys would abandon Harry, their nephew, and treat him any less good than they would their own son."

At this McGonagall's indignation grew. She shook her head, jaw tight, as she said, "You do not understand. I have watched these muggles for a day, and I have seen enough to prove that this is not a home for Harry Potter. Yes; perhaps it is better to raise this child up without the special attention of his achievement, but _not_ away from our world. From magic. I grew up restricting my magic, because my father was a muggle. I grew up with a mother who chose not to use her magic, but felt pain and envy at having to see her children use theirs. That is a faith I will not have Harry Potter—or any wizarding child, for that matter—subjected to, Albus. You must understand." Fierce green eyes pierced solemn blue, pain at having reopened past wounds and determination at having her view seen swirling in their depths.

Albus Dumbledore then saw what had made Minerva McGonagall the strong woman that she was. Loyalty, devotion, an empathy with others that not many possess; a tempest that will stand up for her beliefs, backed with a strong mind and a stronger will. He had seen the potential in her in her younger years, and he is proud to say that he was not mistaken. Minerva McGonagall is a woman to behold.

Perhaps his letter to the Dursleys will never be opened, after all.

"But where will we place Harry, Minerva?" Dumbledore said, "Which home shall be the best for him?"

At this, McGonagall faltered, but relief was obvious in her eyes. Then she stood up straight again, mind racing to answer the wizard's question. It was not unlike her apprenticeship days, where her mentor would ask her questions and let her decide things on her own, except this time, it was to decide a young wizard's home. An idea began spinning in her mind. _Yes, yes, that would definitely do._

Pulling the sleeping bundle closer to her chest, eyes bright with answer, she tried, with conviction, "You."

There was a moment's pause before Dumbledore answered, "I?" His eyebrows rose.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Hagrid echoed, confusedly scratching his scraggly hair.

"Yes," the stern witch said, a smile turning her lips for the first time that night. "There could not be a better candidate, all options considered. The Weasleys' hands are full with six kids. We could not let Augusta handle another child after what had happened to Alice and Frank. The Blacks are out of the question, and all other families more than capable of providing comfort and luxury to Harry are considerably Dark. All others are not close enough to Lily and James to know how they would have preferred how their son is raised. There could not be a better candidate," McGonagall firmly repeated.

"Yet I am old, Minerva," Dumbledore lightly pressed, "and I believe that there are others out there who are more than capable of bringing up young Harry. I am not equipped."

"I'd gladly volunteer, Professors, but I think Professor McGonagall is right," Hagrid inputted, tilting his head towards the aforementioned witch. McGonagall appreciated the support with a considering look and a grateful smile.

"There are the Prewitts—"

"And I'm sure that they'd raise Harry away from the glory of his name," McGonagall interrupted pointedly.

"There are many young couples out there, and I am certain that they'd gladly let Harry into their homes," Dumbledore claimed.

"They would let _Harry Potter_, the _Boy Who Lived_, into their homes, yes," McGonagall disputed, "but I hardly call these young couples trustworthy and ready to raise Harry. As I had said, one who is closer to the Potter family will be preferred to adopt Harry. Besides, we would not want to burden them with a child so early into their marriage. I may be convinced if you could name a few."

But the old wizard cannot. An idea came into his mind. He said, "And how about you, Minerva? You are a woman of fine standing. You are more than qualified—"

"No." McGonagall shook her head decisively. "Even if I were, you are more qualified than I am, Albus."

"I have a lot of responsibilities," Dumbledore rebuked sadly, "responsibilities that will not keep Harry Potter out of the limelight. Certainly you can foresee that."

"You have great responsibilities, but you have greater friends," McGonagall reprimanded softly, warm in her approach. "The boy would need a parental figure in his life as he grows, and you will be more than adequate. We will help you, Albus. We will not leave this responsibility in your hands alone."

"Aye, that we'll do, Professor!" Hagrid crowed in encouragement, grinning widely.

"You have done a great good for the wizarding world, Albus, and we'll be forever indebted. Perhaps you believe you have brittle bones, but you are strong yet. This may be a part of your life's grand mission, and you never know, this may be the brightest. You may be the best father figure to Harry Potter," McGonagall said resolutely.

He understood his deputy's point. He sighed, and conceded half-tiredly, half-exasperatedly. He turned twinkling eyes towards McGonagall, and amusedly eyed the shared triumphant smiles between the witch and Hagrid. "For the meantime, I will try. But I cannot promise that I am the best—"

"You are, of course."

"—and I will still place Harry in the Dursleys' home, if all else fails," he firmly said.

The witch knew that that was the most she can verbally grapple out of the intelligent Hogwarts Headmaster. She tilted her head in reluctant agreement. At the very least, the wizard will try.

But McGonagall knew that Albus Dumbledore never fails, if he sets his heart out to the task. He will succeed.

**※**

* * *

**Snippet from next chapter:**

"Oh, dear," McGonagall exclaimed.

"Oh dear indeed. Minerva, if you weren't a dear friend, I wouldn't give you even the most misshapen of lemon drops for bringing upon me _this_," Albus Dumbledore expressed, staring in horrified fascination at the particularly foul-smelling nappy of one Harry Potter.


	2. Chapter 1

A heap of heartfelt thanks to my readers. Employed a bit of creativity in making up a charm in this chapter. I hope Dumbledore wasn't too much ooc; I hardly think that anyone would be too happy about changing nappies. Also: I'm loosely following the canon timeline, so any deviation is likely deliberate.

Enjoy.

* * *

**And under the waters, the sun**

One

**※**

_1 November 1981_

_Headmaster's Quarters, En-Suite Loo_

乂

"Oh, dear," McGonagall exclaimed.

"Oh dear indeed. Minerva, if you weren't a dear friend, I wouldn't give you even the most misshapen of lemon drops for bringing upon me _this_," Albus Dumbledore expressed, staring in horrified fascination at the particularly foul-smelling nappy of one Harry Potter.

"Don't be so melodramatic, Headmaster," McGonagall said, shaking out of her stupor and whipping out her wand in a flash. "I have once seen Molly Weasley change her youngest son's nappy, and if you may give me a second, I can recall the incantation of the charm."

"Oh, many thanks, Minerva," Dumbledore said, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Yes, yes," McGonagall replied distractedly, flicking her wrist in the Nappy Cleaning Charm's wand motion in practice, before nodding to herself and turning to the wizard. "The incantation is _purr-gaw indu-see-yah_, and you move your wand so."

"_Purgo Indusia_," Dumbledore mimicked, and watched in satisfaction as the dirty nappy became clean and fresh-smelling.

"It's better for the little nipper's skin if you actually change his nappies instead of just cleaning one over and again," McGonagall mused.

Suddenly, a mischievous spark entered her eyes, and with her tone airy and decidedly flippant, she spoke, "How do you feel about some shopping?" hoping to throw off her mentor because most wizards _loathe_ even the notion of shopping.

Dumbledore's eyebrows flew to his hairline. A moment after, a twinkle entered his bright blue eyes, and McGonagall knew then that she had mistakenly breached very, _very_ dangerous grounds.

"Why, what a marvelous idea! There is nothing to worry, for I have always considered myself with very fashionable taste. We can go to my personal tailor, I am sure the mistress would be absolutely delighted to provide some dashing fabrics for little Harry—" Dumbledore chittered.

"Or, we can always order the layette through catalog and have them delivered by owl," McGonagall interjected dourly. The strict witch was horrified to think of whatever garish clothing the wizard would purchase for the poor unsuspecting Potter Heir.

She eyed the wizened wizard with some bafflement and fond exasperation as he waved her comment away and continued his excited blabber, wondering how he came to be the greatest wizard alive.

* * *

**※**

_20 December 1981_

_Headmaster's Quarters, Hogwarts_

乂

"Oh, what am I to do with you?" Albus Dumbledore cried, looking mournfully at a very wet and very noisy baby Harry.

The infant has been crying for quite some time now, and Albus has tried everything he could think of to make the baby calm down and leave him in peace to conquer his mountainous paperwork. He had fed Harry, checked his nappies, waved his new toys in an attempt on distraction, and tried to place a dummy in the grizzle's mouth, which Harry unceremoniously spit out. When all that didn't work, Albus bounced him gently around while making quite ridiculous cooing noises in hopes of quieting the infant down; to no avail.

Alas, there Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore helplessly stood, defeated by a mere one-year-old. Granted, it was the same one-year-old who recently vanished a very menacing Dark Lord, but that's beside the point.

He tried to make some funny faces at the wailing sprog, but that only made Harry cry harder. In a fit of rarely shown frustration, Albus snapped his fingers and conjured a flicker of bright blue flames, far enough away from the infant clutched closely to his chest.

By some miracle, baby Harry stopped crying, wide green eyes staring in open fascination at the burst of magic. His sniffles quieted down, and his closed fists slowly opened as he reached out towards the air where the flames had vanished.

Albus raised an eyebrow, looking skeptically down at the infant before snapping his fingers again, feeling the rush of magic through the tips of his fingers as he let the small fire dance.

Harry blinked his large green eyes, before a giggle bubbled forth from his mouth and he waved his arms towards the innocuous flames.

"What a curious baby," the Headmaster breathed out, eyes twinkling. He continued to materialize and control visible magic in the air in front of the small Potter, a few chuckles escaping him as the child continued giggling.

Harry's tears had dried, and never more did he cry that night as the old Headmaster entertained him with colourful displays of magic, till little Harry yawned and then retired to a sound sleep.

That was the moment that Albus Dumbledore had learnt how to deal with a very distressed baby. For the years to come, the tricks would continue to work, and Harry would grow to appreciate his guardian's aptitude for feats of incredible, wandless magic, and yearn to cultivate his own innate power.

That memory would forever be embedded in Harry Potter's mind—and would serve, however unknowingly, as part of the foundations of his dream to become a greatly accomplished wizard when he grows up.

* * *

**※**

_31 December 1981_

_Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts_

乂

Silence pervaded the room, interrupted only by the few, tinkling noises made by the various trinkets and curios that littered shelves and tables around the circle office.

Fawkes was absent from his perch, only having gone through his burning a few hours into Boxing Day, and likely to be reborn as the new year dawns.

Albus sighed, dearly missing his familiar's comforting song. He wished, at least, that he wouldn't be alone on this particular date, when all the memories that come with it rose like ravenous monsters from the depths of his mind every year without fail. But Fawkes had been restless since the first days of Yuletide, and it was a miracle that he'd managed to withhold his Burning Day long enough to be able to celebrate their first holiday with little Harry.

At the thought of the green-eyed baby, a smile hitched up the corners of Dumbledore's lips, and for a while the monsters were kept at bay as memories of the past few weeks jumped to his mind.

Albus can admit to himself that joy hasn't been so prevailing an emotion in his heart for too many years to count, especially with the grueling and devastating war with Voldemort that had wrecked wizarding Britain apart.

There were too little spots of light in their battles, all of them downtrodden and barely holding on as the years of constant death wore on; too scared to cling to the little moments of happiness, guilt preventing them from celebrating because they all knew that each second wasted meant another life forfeited.

It was startling, to say the least, when Harry Potter became a source of constant happiness in his life ever since he had taken the boy under his wing. Albus couldn't deny that while the additional responsibility of caring for another life wore him down to his bones (and it was only a few weeks since, though it felt like years), Harry's presence was uplifting in a way that only innocent and adorable babies could be.

A twinkle entered the wizard's bright blue eyes. Albus remembered the unending wonder and delight in Harry's brilliant green eyes when he sometimes entertained the baby with colourful exhibitions of magic in his free time between duties.

It was fulfilling to know that he could still bring happiness to another being. That he could do as much, still. That even only in this, there was no chance he can fail.

Too many people he had let down, disappointed, abandoned. Most of them, he had let down with full awareness, knowing that he was forsaking them for the greater good.

Sometimes, Albus wondered if all those sacrifices were for naught; that the greater good was undeserving of every life on the battlefield, because it seemed in his most terrible nightmares that the number of their sacrifices far outweighed the peace they've temporarily won. What they, ultimately, didn't even gain for good.

Because the old wizard knew that Tom Riddle would be back, and he didn't believe for a second that his former student's resurrection would be advantageous for the welfare of their world.

His eyes strayed to the corner where a tall credenza stood, housing within a number of crystal vials that held his most important memories.

Several may speculate that those memories would contain his happiest moments, forever cherished and glorified within protective glass, if they knew such vials existed. After all, it was the most logical purpose of preserving memories, for why would you preserve pain when you can preserve joy?

Albus can admit to that selfishly, as proven by a vial encasing his memory of discovering the twelfth use for dragon's blood, and a few others holding bright memories from that fateful summer in Godric's Hollow.

What the masses wouldn't know, or ever suspect, however, was that most of those memories carried neither happiness nor success in them. For an intellectual man such as Albus Dumbledore, preserving the memories of your greatest mistakes has overriding worth than preserving those of your successes. For only in those lows of life can you learn, and through the years he had lived through those minutes countless of times to dissect them and detect _where he had gone wrong_.

However demoralizing and evocative those memories were, Albus relived them whenever he can, pushing past his grief and bias to be an effective and critical spectator to his monumental blunders in life.

From his most brilliant of moments to the most haunting and puzzling memories of his long life—they were all in there, encased in delicate, delicate crystal.

Wry amusement coloured his thoughts.

If only his enemies knew that the answers to his undoing hid in an old, beaten cabinet.

Alas, masochism has never been a word the adoring masses would use to describe the illustrious Headmaster of Hogwarts.

_All of them, except for one_.

Gellert has never been one to associate himself with the general public, and he had recognized that particular trait of his, Albus mused with mixed fondness and pained recollection.

Shaking those thoughts away, the wizened man stood up from his desk chair and started towards the credenza. The night was young, and there was a certain memory that needed remembering before he can join Minerva—who was currently taking care of baby Harry—and the staff in celebrating the new year.

Albus opened the credenza, long fingers immediately seeking a particularly blue-tinted crystal phial.

He poured the white wisp into the ivory basin of the Pensieve, and dived headfirst into the memory.

...

_"Hello, Professor Dumbledore. What can I do for you?" a cultured voice asked._

_An auburn-haired Dumbledore looked stonily back at the handsome young man. Black, neat hair curled elegantly around his aristocratic face. He was tall and lean and faultlessly poised even in his growing, teenage body. A polite smile curved his perfectly proportioned lips. The quintessential model student._

_If Dumbledore never saw the cruel child that greeted him that pivotal day at Wool's Orphanage, he might have been fooled like the rest of them. Because Tom Riddle was flawless in his act, and he let nothing slip even to the wary eye._

_At times, Dumbledore wondered if he was fortunate at all to have known otherwise._

_"I'm here to inform you that your request to stay over the holidays has been rejected," Dumbledore said._

_A flash of what Albus thought was outrage came up in the sixteen, soon seventeen-year-old's eyes, before that too was smothered in the cool blankness that the child has frustratingly mastered over the years._

_"Is there any room for reconsideration, sir?" Is that a hint of desperation?_

_"I'm afraid there isn't, Mr. Riddle. We'd like to keep our students' safety top priority, owing to recent unfortunate events," Dumbledore replied, a vindictive sort of gratification lighting up in his chest as the child's lips tightened before completely flattening out._

_It is a fitting retribution for the boy, Albus thought._

_'Please,' the Slytherin's deep slate eyes implored, and Albus was surprised by what seemed like real desperation swirling in those pools of dark, arresting grey. He'd never seen that before, especially from the boy who was always in control of his emotions and thoughts._

_In its heels, however, was the expected, accusatory: 'I know this is your fault, you meddling, suspicious, biased, despicable man. Headmaster Dippet would have definitely allowed me to stay. Your fault, always.'_

_He shook his head and turned on his heel, coldly brushing off that brief instance of faux emotion that he foolishly fell for, even for just a moment._

_Tom Riddle did not have the capacity for deep emotion, he told himself. A sociopath, who lived detachedly from the rest of the world. Who did anything he wanted without any hindrance of conscience or sympathy._

_As he walked away, lost in his speculations, Albus Dumbledore did not notice the intense slate eyes watching his back, nor the light disappearing from their depths._

_..._

Albus gasped, bringing his head up from the ivory basin, and leaned heavily against the counter, guilt and shame heavy in his heart.

He'd never forgiven himself after that decision. In hindsight, it was cruel to have let a _boy—_and that Tom Riddle was, but a boy, however exceptionally bright and mature and remorseless in personality—live in muggle London, unable to cast magic and protect himself if the need arose, while the muggle's Second World War was escalating and turning more dangerous by the day.

All muggles had lived with dread and trepidation lodged in their hearts in those years, fearing the moment when bombs would come down from the heavens and blow all their homes and loved ones away.

Cruel, Albus thought, and he cursed his arrogant, younger self for not giving the boy the benefit of the doubt.

Because that hint of desperation in the young man's eyes, eyes that rarely showed any emotion, was _real_. After seeing that particular memory several times, Albus had come to this conclusion, and he'd realized that he might as well have damned the whole wizarding world for his misjudgment.

After that holiday break, Tom Riddle came back bitter and broken and more distant than ever before. The events of the following years became proof of what he once thought was innate psychopathy. But now he wasn't so sure.

If Albus' attitude towards the young Riddle would be proven as the catalyst to the monster known as Voldemort, well...

Once Voldemort resurrects, Dumbledore will put a stop to him. He will destroy the monster that he had created, or die trying.

**※**

* * *

Hello, lame ending. Well, I tried my best. ┻━┻︵㈐8ᕙ(㈝3益㈝3ᕙ ) The memory works in the premise that Tom opened the Chamber of Secrets early in the 1942-1943 term and had let the Basilisk out even before the holidays, prompting the Headmaster to reject all requests of students to stay over at Hogwarts due to safety reasons.

Please keep in mind that I have written from the perspective of a character who is definitely not omnipotent or omnipresent, and who consequently does not have all the right answers (which doesn't mean that there isn't a smidgen of truth in Dumbledore's thoughts, just saying). However, whichever's right or wrong from Dumbledore's musings will be for you to judge, and for future chapters to reveal. And yes, Dumbledore was using Legilimency, but only to read surface thoughts (which, for the sake of maintaining the image of a genius Tom Riddle, we will all assume that he had started learning Occlumency by this time; at least to clear out his mind and hide his thoughts), so what he thinks Tom thinks are actually just speculations.

I edited the prologue because I made it seem like McGonagall knew Tom Riddle personally when she actually attended Hogwarts after he graduated.

Actual baby Harry interactions the next chapter! And I might make a few years' worth of time skips, but not until the chapter after the next.

Tell me what you thought! ;D


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